Page 4 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
And his face… She thought she’d never tire of looking at him, with his strong jaw and brow, the deep grooves under his cheekbones. His nose had a slight bump in it, as though it had been broken, and there was a small silver scar at the corner of those defined lips. Lips that seemed to beg for a kiss. His dark hair tumbled down to his shoulders in unruly and gorgeous dark curls, while his cunning green eyes, the color of cool pine, seemed to take her measure with a single glance.
Her heart raced as her lips parted, unable to stop herself from staring at this stranger, who offered her a slow and wicked smile.
And she realized how much danger she was in.
Emma Wells, daughter of the Earl of Cumbria and Fairisle Lakes, had somehow found herself at the mercy of a Highlander.
CHAPTER 2
“No.”
The word burst out of her. Emma twisted to wrench herself free, even as she shut her eyes and tensed up, waiting for a blow—or worse.
Instead, to her surprise, those strong hands let her go. With a gasp, her eyes flew open, and she retreated a few steps. Breathing hard, she watched the man watching her, his eyes slightly narrowed and a smile still playing on his lips.
She waited for him to speak, to chide her or say something uncouth, but instead, he held out a small bag.
Emma gasped as she recognized it and seized it, staring at the man wordlessly. He offered her a small smile and a shrug, then swung the other bag off his shoulder. He’d retrieved her possessions.
“Why?” Emma whispered.
Why would you help me?
He gave her a look that she couldn’t read, then looked her over with some sympathy, and she clutched her bags tighter.
This man must have thought her a helpless maid and had taken pity on her. This Highlander did not see her as a Lady, and Emma knew, with a sudden flash of clarity, that he might not let her go if he did.
Nodding at him, she murmured a soft, “Thank ye.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and she tried to smile, but it felt tremulous. As she made to turn around, he suddenly moved in front of her and caught her chin, forcing her face up to his.
Emma trembled from head to foot, unable to look away from that green gaze. Heat and nerves clashed low in her belly, while her legs pressed together.
Could he see past the unkempt hair and messy clothes to the Lady below?
She squeezed her eyes shut, and a tear rolled down her face. To her surprise, his grip loosened, and a gloved thumb swept across her cheek. Emma gasped at the lick of heat that went through her at that touch, but when she opened her eyes, he was walking away.
About to call after him, she stopped herself and instead watched him vanish, as though he were a part of the woods. Even his kilt of bold blues and reds against a lovely, soft tan could not be seen.
A nervous laugh escaped her, and she put a hand to her head, breathing out. “That was too close. I must get away from here. Of all the people to run into—a bloody Highlander.” Tossing back her head, feeling emboldened, she continued to talk to herself as she walked along—a childhood habit from growing up without siblings. “Her Majesty would’ve been pleased no doubt. Perhaps Her Will is strong enough to cause such a thing.”
Laughing louder, Emma imagined herself being presented and explaining to the Queen, “Why yes, we met in the woods after he mistook me for a maid fleeing bandits. A proper bard’s tale, no? And I curtseyed to him, saying, ‘Oh, yes, My Laird, take me away to the barren lands of the north, to your dreary castle and raucous kin, where a noble lady of England might thrive’.”
Emma rolled her eyes and then bobbed a deep, mock curtsey in the woods.
Only to look up and spot the Highlander standing a few paces away from her, leaning against a tree, his arms folded, his green eyes blazing at her.
And this time, his smile held no pity.
The last place Grant wanted to be on was the road to London to treat with the Queen. But her Summons were inexorable—especially when she meant to pardon his crimes in exchange for taking a wife.
After all, Grant Miller, Laird of Clan Ronson and former assassin of Clan MacCabe, was one of the catalysts for crafting the Queen’s Edict.
Rather than risk war, the canny woman had decided to twine the bloodlines of the South and the North, solidifying her power and putting someone like Grant in his place.
The crafty Queen had pinned him neatly, Grant would give her that. She had proof of his crimes in one hand and a pardon in the other.
However, Grant saw his bargaining chip in the comely shape of the blue-eyed runaway standing in front of him.
